


Five Times Omar Crushed On Ginny and One Time He Did Something About It

by outruntheavalanche



Series: Author's Favorites [8]
Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Implied Relationships, Injury, Injury Recovery, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:39:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8676706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: Omar is twenty-two, fresh out of college, and toiling his way through the Cards’ farm system when he meets Trevor Davis.





	1. Quieren tener lo que tú tienes

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea when I remembered Omar played in St. Louis and was likely a teammate of Trevor Davis, Ginny's ex.
> 
> The actor who plays Omar is Cuban, so Omar is probably Cuban too, but I didn't know that when I started writing this so in this fic Omar is Venezuelan.
> 
> Chapter titles from "Calentura," by Yandel.

Omar is twenty-two, fresh out of college, and toiling his way through the Cards’ farm system when he meets Trevor Davis. Davis is new too, recently traded over from the Angels, and he hardly knows anyone. Omar hardly knows anyone too. They’re in the same boat. 

The two of them get to be fast friends, nearly inseparable. Omar doesn’t have any family in the States, they’re all back home in Venezuela awaiting his next modest paycheck. Davis doesn’t talk much about his family—Omar gets the distinct impression his parents are disappointed in his choice of career paths—but he talks about a girl sometimes. 

Ginny. _Ginny_. The way Davis says her name—he makes her name sound like a benediction. Holy. 

_The one that got away_ is how one of Omar’s teammates puts it, as he shakes his head and makes a sad whistling sound between his teeth. 

Davis keeps a picture of Ginny in his wallet. They’d split up, which makes it kind of weird for him to still be carrying her picture around, Omar thinks. But he doesn’t say so. It’s not his place. He and Davis are friends, but they're not _that_ close. 

Davis puts the picture of Ginny in his locker one day and Omar sneaks a look at it while he’s in the showers. 

She’s real pretty. Proud, her gaze cool and steady and her shoulders straight. And it looks like she’s a ballplayer too. Ginny has a baseball glove resting on her hip and a ball held loosely in her right hand. There’s something about the sight of her, holding that baseball in her hand, that excites Omar. 

He’s not sure what it is. He’s not sure why, but Omar can kind of see why Davis is still hung up on her. He picks up the picture and flips it over. 

_To Trevor, **♥** **♥** **♥** Ginny. Maybe someday this autograph will be worth some $$$. :)_

Omar isn’t proud of himself for what he does next, but he tucks the picture of Ginny in his pocket and hurries back to his own locker. 

When Davis emerges from the showers and asks about the missing picture, Omar feels the weight of it heavy in his pocket.


	2. Pero no te alcanzan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Omar’s having a shitty day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Calentura," by Yandel.

Omar’s having a shitty day. Oh-fer, three strikeouts. One more and he’ll have the Golden Sombrero. Ginny Baker’s made him look like a fool all afternoon, like he doesn’t belong. Like he should take his bat and glove and go back to Maracay. His mama misses him, she wouldn’t mind if Omar came home. 

This is Omar’s first time facing Ginny and she’s even prettier in person. The picture—the one he stole from Davis’ locker—doesn’t do her justice. (He still has her picture, it’s tucked between the pages of his _Misal del Pueblo_ which he keeps stuffed in the back of his locker. He never looks at it, he feels guilty. It’s enough that he knows it’s there.)

When he digs his cleats into the dirt at home plate and looks out at the mound, Ginny is covered in shadows. He can hardly see her face. Maybe—finally—he’ll catch a break.

Ginny toes the rubber. Omar tightens gloved hands around the handle of his bat. 

Omar wouldn’t mind if he grounded out. At least a groundout would mean he finally put wood on the ball. He’s feeling a little desperate. 

Ginny comes out of her windup like a magnificent bird, right arm slinging through the air. Omar can see her fingers on the seams of the ball as she lets it go. 

Omar pulls back like he’s going to bunt and watches the ball into the catcher’s mitt, strike one. 

He looks back at the mound. Ginny is watching him with a hawk’s eye. 

He has nothing in his arsenal to use against her, she’s got him twisted into knots and she knows it. 

Ginny does a funny thing then: she smiles at him. Just the tiniest quirk of the corner of her mouth. She steps back on the rubber and Omar settles back in the batter’s box. Omar’s stomach tumbles.

He watches her tuck the ball in her glove and twirl a finger in the air so she and her catcher can cycle through the signs again.

She rocks back, drawing her glove to her chest. Then she springs forward, ball spinning out of her hand. 

Omar lunges after it but he never really had a chance.


	3. Provócame calentura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Omar walks into the clubhouse and she’s right there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Calentura," by Yandel.
> 
> And this is all I've got written at the moment.

Omar walks into the clubhouse and she’s right there. _Ginny_. He still has her—Davis’—picture tucked in the pages of his _Misal Del Pueblo_. When he slides his hand in his jacket pocket, his fingers brush against the little prayer book and his _abuela’s_ coiled rosary beads. He feels the edges of the picture poking out from between the tissue-thin pages.

For a moment, Omar feels a pang of guilt and wonders if he should give her the picture he took from Davis. Ginny smiles at him and lifts her chin in a barely perceptible nod. Omar smiles and nods back.

Then Al Luongo, his new manager, is at his side, asking him if he can play third base. 

He looks for Ginny but she’s already gone.


	4. Cuando le ponen calentura se pone inquieta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Omar feels suddenly exposed, naked, like he’s being looked at for the very first time in his life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This includes some dialogue from "Unstoppable Forces and Immovable Objects."
> 
> Hover over the Spanish for hopefully accurate translations.
> 
> Chapter title, as ever, from "Calentura," by Yandel.

“Omar.”

Ginny swivels in her seat and looks at him, eyebrows raised. Omar feels suddenly exposed, naked, like he’s being looked at for the very first time in his life. Like no one has ever looked at him before this and no one ever will afterwards. 

Can she see how he feels about her just by looking at him? Can she somehow see the fading, frayed photograph of her that he keeps among the pages of his prayer book? Can she see his heart beating faster against his ribcage just from her looking at him?

Omar squirms uncomfortably under the twin spotlights of her eyes. He doesn’t like being put on the spot. Doesn’t like being pressed into action. He’s never been adept at pinch hitting. Too much pressure, too many ways it can go wrong. At that point, he’s usually gone numb from sitting on the bench all game, and he only gets a couple practice swings in before he has to step into the batter’s box. He much prefers playing the whole game—doesn’t matter what position, first, second, third, short, even a little outfield—because at least then, he’s been on his toes all night. At least then, he knows what to expect.

Omar opens his mouth to respond, but his throat goes dry. He knows what he wants to say—the truth, that she was the one who messed up, saw a sign that wasn’t a sign—but also he just can’t get the words out. His throat is parched. _Yo tengo mucha sed._

“You were on first base on the play, right?”

“Yes.”

“And did you run on the same pitch I did?”

Omar hesitates for just a second. “Yes…”

“Did you see Buck give a hit and run sign?”

Ginny is staring at him again. Expecting an answer, lovely brown eyes bright with triumph. She’s so sure that she’s right. Omar wants her to be right. 

Duarte turns and looks at him, expecting an answer now too. Lawson just glares and glares, like he’s trying to burn holes in Omar’s chest with his eyes. Lawson’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks like _el oso pardo_ with the thick black beard and the eyebrows over stormy eyes. Looks like he could tear Omar to pieces. Looks like he might.

Omar says a quick prayer in his head before answering. 

“Yes.”

Ginny finally looks away from him, beaming at Mike Lawson. Omar’s heart is both heavy and light at the same time.


	5. No le hagas caso a lo que digan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Omar and Blip both turn to watch Lawson storm out of the training room, the door slamming shut behind him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part picks up right after the scene in "Unstoppable Forces and Immovable Objects" between Mike, Blip, and Omar.
> 
> Chapter title from "Calentura (Remix)" by Yandel (ft. Tempo).
> 
> The rule on fraternization was actually probably implemented in response to gambling scandals in the early 20th century.

Omar and Blip both turn to watch Lawson storm out of the training room, the door slamming shut behind him.

There’s something uneasy, something heavy and electrically charged hanging in the air, like a storm cloud about to burst. 

“Look,” Blip says finally, turning to Omar. “He’s under a lot of stress right now. I wouldn’t take it too personal.”

“I know how I feel,” Omar mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. He scuffs his heel on the carpet. 

Blip sighs, puts a hand on Omar’s shoulder, and gives him a gentle but firm squeeze. “Look, man, I’m not gonna tell you your feelings aren’t valid. You feel what you feel. But you gotta keep it under wraps, okay? You can’t let Ginny know about it.”

Omar frowns. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I tell her how I feel about her?” he asks.

Blip tilts his head at him and hikes his eyebrows. “Say you tell Ginny how you feel and maybe a little somethin’ somethin’ happens between y’all. How d’you think that’s gonna go over in the clubhouse, huh?”

“I’d be careful,” Omar protests, shaking Blip’s hand off his shoulder and attempting to rally.

“Omar, c’mon, man.” Blip shakes his head and runs a hand over his face. “There’s a reason rule three-oh-nine’s on the books, even if nobody enforces it.”

“Three-oh-nine?” Omar echoes.

Blip rolls his eyes. “Thou shalt not fraternize.”

“Oh. _Oh_. That’s just for players on the other team,” Omar says, with a laugh. “We’re teammates, we gotta fraternize _some_ time, don’t we?”

“Principle’s the same, though. You get chummy with the guys on the other side of the chalkline, it could compromise your game. Same thing here. Except, y’know, it’s Ginny and not, like, Big Papí or Miggy Cabrera,” Blip says.

Omar sighs. “You think it could be a distraction if me and her…”

“If _anyone_ on this team and her,” Blip corrects, giving Omar’s shoulder another shake. 

Omar thinks about Lawson. About Lawson’s speech. “Lawson’s close to her. You don’t think—”

“Stop,” Blip cuts in, “don’t even go there.”

“But—”

Salvamini ducks into the training room and taps on the door. “C’mon, guys, kangaroo court’s still in session!”

Sighing again, Omar trudges after Blip, pulling the brim of his ballcap down low over his eyes.


	6. Abranle paso a la reina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What happens is: Ginny gets hurt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, I had most of this written before the finale so the part with her injury got Jossed. 
> 
> I wrestled with Omar’s dialogue a bit in this part. I wanted to keep his speech patterns realistic to how a Spanish-speaker would speak English, but then realized the dialogue could be kind of hard to follow. I ended up compromising a little. The Spanish is possibly inaccurate. If so, let me know.
> 
> The tattoo [exists](http://nullrefer.com/?http://i81.photobucket.com/albums/j221/rowdykylefarnsworth/misc92/Tattoo.png). [This](http://nullrefer.com/?http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2015/10/05/sports/baseball/baseball-playoffs-scars-of-the-game.html) and [this](http://nullrefer.com/?http://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/07/sports/baseball/with-tommy-john-surgery-every-scar-tells-a-story.html) are fascinating looks at pitchers and position players who’ve had Tommy John Surgery, and pictures of their scars.
> 
> The reference to dogs’ faces being trapped in bagels is a nod to [this](http://nullrefer.com/?http://darecrow.co.vu/post/150193216199/i-collect-photos-of-dogs-trapped-in-the-2nd) tumblr post.
> 
>  _Zumaya was sidelined for the 2006 American League Championship Series by a sore wrist, which Tigers general manager Dave Dombrowski disclosed in a December 2006 radio interview was due to Zumaya playing the PlayStation 2 video game Guitar Hero. On the Xbox 360 version of Guitar Hero II, the credits read: **No pitchers were harmed in the making of this game. Except for one. Joel Zumaya. He had it coming.**_ — [Joel Zumaya’s Wikipedia page](http://nullrefer.com/?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joel_Zumaya)
> 
> Title from "Calentura (Remix), by Yandel (ft. Tempo).
> 
> Also, a million thanks to [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/profile)[**blastellanos**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/) for betaing this final part (and the previous parts) for me!

Omar’s sitting in the dugout with half a pack of Big League Chew stuffed into his mouth when—when _se desatará el infierno_. Omar doesn’t even have the words in English to describe what happens.

What happens is: Ginny gets hurt. She releases a pitch and then staggers off the mound, clutching her elbow. Then she collapses on her knees in the grass, groaning, reaching up and ripping her ballcap off her head to clutch at her hair. Her right arm hanging limp by her side.

Lawson’s at her side in a second, a big hand splayed on her back. Lifts off his mask and leans in, murmuring to her. Then he’s motioning to the dugout for the trainers. His eyes are wide, a little bit panicked.

Omar feels bile rise in his throat. He’s seen this before. And he’s going to be sick all over the dugout floor. Omar gets up, takes a step toward the field, when a hand lands on his arm.

“They’ve got it taken care of, buddy.” Salvamini. Omar takes a step back from the dugout steps. “She’ll be fine. Ginny’ll be fine.”

Omar reaches up and touches the chain around his neck, then the tiny cross tucked under the collar of his undershirt. Repeats it under his breath— _Ginny will be fine_ —like a prayer. Repeats and repeats and repeats it until he almost believes it.

-

She’s not fine. 

-

Ginny sits in her hospital bed, back propped up with pillows, thumb poised over a morphine button. Other than the brace and the bandages wound around her arm, she looks fine. Normal, even, if a little tired and drowsy from the drugs. There are rows and rows of cards sitting on the little table beside her bed, and she’s taped up drawings and photos on the wall behind her head.

Omar cradles a flower pot against his chest and raps gently on the doorframe.

“Yeah?” Ginny sets the morphine pump on the table next to the cards. A tube runs from the back of her hand up a metal pole, into an IV drip.

“Ginny, hi. Is a bad time?” Omar asks, hesitantly, lingering in the doorway.

Ginny manages a smile and shakes her head, springy black curls bobbing around her head. “Not at all. C’mon in,” she says, lifting her uninjured arm to beckon him to join her.

Omar does so and strides over to the side of her bed. He places the flower pot alongside the cards and well-wishes. 

“Brought you orchids,” Omar explains, taking a step back, ducking his head so he doesn’t have to see her looking at him. He reaches out and brushes his thumb over the soft, bright purple petals. “ _Mamá_ has nursery back home. My country’s national flower. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Ginny laughs and picks up the pot, holding the flowers against her nose. She breathes in deeply, a tiny smile lingering on her face. “Thank you,” she says, looking up at him, over the flowers. “Stubbs and Sonny came by earlier and gave me some copies of Guitar Hero and Rock Band, with explicit instructions not to start playing until I get the brace off and the stitches out. Apparently I’m doing Joel Zumaya Injury Bingo all backwards.”

Omar laughs and looks around, eyes settling on a rolly little stool on wheels. He pulls it over and sits next to her. “I have something for you,” he says, reaching into the inner lining of his jacket. His fingers brush against the edges of Trevor Davis’ photograph.

Ginny rests a hand in her lap and watches him, brown eyes sparkling. She has a glow about her, regal. Omar feels like a knight in the presence of his queen.

Omar pulls out the photograph, now creased and worn, and holds it up. Ginny looks at it, forehead wrinkling.

“What’s that?” she asks.

Omar flips it over so that the inscription on the back shows. “I have teammate in Memphis,” he says softly, letting her pluck the picture from between his fingers. “He has ex-girlfriend he always talk about. _The one who got away_. He always talk about how beautiful and perfect she is. I didn’t believe him. Until I saw her picture.”

Ginny looks down at the back of the picture and Omar watches as realization dawns slowly, like a shade being drawn away from a window. She looks up at him, her face expressionless and her eyes unreadable.

“I gave this to Trevor,” she says.

Omar nods and burns with shame. “I took it from his locker.”

“You’ve kept it all this time?” Ginny asks quietly.

“I shouldn’t have, but I told myself it was all right. He needed to move on,” Omar says, still resolutely _not_ looking at Ginny. “I could never find the courage to tell Trevor I took his picture and give it back.”

“You… Do you have feelings for me?” Ginny places the picture on the table, next to Omar’s flower pot.

Omar looks at her, finally. “I… I think I do.”

“You don’t even know me,” Ginny says, her eyes shuttering and her expression growing stony. “You came up with all these fantasies of a woman you don’t have the first clue about. I’m not her. I’m not whatever you dreamt up at night because you were lonely.”

Omar flinches—her words cut too close to home—but doesn’t let himself look away. “You’re right. I don’t know you.” He glances at the picture he’s been carrying around all these years. He flicks his eyes back on Ginny. “I want to, though. I _want_ to know you.”

After a moment, Ginny gives a small shake of the head, but she’s smiling just a bit. “I don’t date team—”

“I know,” Omar says. “I mean… I want to know the real person. Not…not _her_.” 

He picks the photograph up and turns it over. The image of Ginny stares out at him, imperious and imposing, beautiful and proud. 

_She’s all those things_ , he thinks. _But she’s other things too. She’s more._

Ginny laughs, a deep, throaty, genuine sound. Omar feels like he’s been blessed. Gifted with a chance to set things right.

“Okay,” she says, scrunching her face and scratching at her chin as she pretends to think hard. “I hate cilantro. Like, _really_ hate it. It’s the worst.”

“Tastes like soap,” Omar says, smiling.

Ginny laughs some more and points at him, grinning. “Yes. Yes, exactly.” She holds her palm up to him and Omar takes the invitation for what it is, high-fiving her. “I’ve tasted soap, actually. And I’m pretty sure soap tastes better than cilantro.”

Now it’s Omar’s turn to laugh. “Why would you eat soap…”

Ginny shrugs. “What can I say, I was always cussing as a kid. Got my mouth washed out with soap more times than I can remember.”

“You ever have arepas?” Omar asks her, sitting back, allowing himself to relax a little.

Ginny shakes her head. “No, what are those?”

Omar grins at her. “Fried corn cakes. Food of the gods,” he says, kissing his fingertips with a flourish, showing off maybe. She smiles and laughs at him. “Come with me to Berta’s sometime. Best arepas in San Diego. Almost as good as my _mamá’s_ , back home.”

“You’re from Venezuela, yeah?” she asks.

Omar nods. “Yes. Maracay.”

Ginny settles back against her pillows. “I went to Venezuela for winter ball, a few years ago,” she says. “ _Leones del Caracas_.”

Omar makes an exaggerated face. “ _¡Viva los Tigres!_ ”

Ginny laughs. “ _Los gloriosos Leones del Caracas_.”

“You play for Leones del Caracas and you never try arepas?” Omar gasps dramatically, feigning horror. “We’ll fix that.”

Ginny smiles at him and reaches out, fingers searching for his hand. Omar reaches out with his own hand, meeting her halfway. He squeezes her hand gently and she squeezes back. When their eyes meet, both Omar and Ginny start to laugh. Her eyes flick back to the old, creased picture of her on the nightstand.

“I’m glad you came to see me,” she says, meeting his eyes, holding his gaze.

“Me too,” Omar says, treating it like the gift he knows it is.

“Now you know me,” Ginny continues, “just a little bit. What d’you think? Did I live up to her?” She runs her finger along one of the edges of the photograph.

“Nah,” Omar says, laughing and ducking when she tries to toss a pillow at his head. “She doesn’t exist. Like you say. The woman I built up in my head, she’s not you. You’re better.”

They talk and talk—about Lawson’s trade that fell through, about her injury, a little about her dad, Omar’s mom, Katy Perry, _tacuchos_ and _tequeños_ and _torta burrera_ —until visiting hours are over and the nurses come by to chase him out of her room.

Omar says his goodbyes and gets up to leave, when he feels a hand close around his own and tug gently.

“Ginny?” he asks, looking down at how her fingers fit around his thumb.

“Did you wanna keep this?” She picks up the picture and holds it out.

“I—I shouldn’t,” he says, but he takes it anyway and flips it over. 

Ginny’s scribbled out the message to Trevor and written a new one. 

**thanks for being my friend, I don’t have too many of those. :)**

Omar looks at her. She looks back, her expression guarded. “Thank you,” he says, tucking the picture in his jacket pocket, next to his _Misal del Pueblo_.

Ginny lets the walls come down, for a moment, and she smiles. “Right back at you.”

Omar leaves, but he comes back the next day to visit. And the day after that. 

After the season ends, they exchange phone numbers and emails. Omar sends her funny memes. Ginny texts him pictures of bagels that look like they have dogs’ faces trapped in them. Omar stops eating bagels for a little while.

Christmas comes, and he sends her a card and she sends one to him.

When spring training rolls around in February, she’s there. She can’t pitch yet—won’t be ready to start pitching again until the end of the year, at the earliest—but everyone’s happy to see her. 

Ginny proudly shows off a tattoo of a smiley face on her elbow, over her L-shaped Tommy John scar. Eliot takes a picture of the tattoo and uploads it to Ginny’s Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat accounts. When Omar runs into Eliot a couple hours later, Eliot tells him that the tweet already has a thousand retweets and likes.

Omar finds Ginny in the indoor batting cages, throwing bright yellow tennis balls against a padded wall. She’s worked up a sweat, curls plastered to her forehead. 

“Baker,” Omar says, by way of a greeting.

Ginny turns and smiles at him, giving him a wave. “Robles.”

“How’s your offseason?” Omar leaps up and barehands an errant tennis ball, tossing it back to Ginny.

Ginny pauses, mulling over her answer before replying, “A major pain in the ass. I spent a lot of time sitting on my ass, then rehabbing. But not a whole lot of time actually pitching. You?”

“Spent some of it in Maracay, with my family. Came to Arizona in January to work out. Been here ever since,” he says.

“January? Isn’t that a little early,” Ginny asks, as she bounces a tennis ball off the wall opposite her. It comes back toward her and she throws out a hand, snagging it mid-air.

“Yes, a little bit. Want to be in even better shape. More prepared for whatever they throw at me,” Omar says, leaning on an old, out-of-service pitching machine.

Ginny nods and returns her attention to tossing the tennis balls against the wall. Omar contents himself with watching her work. 

“That’s pretty much why I got a place here,” she says, huffing out a breath and swiping sweat from her brow. “I hike the trails when it’s not too hot out. Sunrise Mountain Trail is nice. I’ve hiked WestWing Park too.”

“Is there much you can do without being cleared yet?” Omar asks, gesturing to her elbow.

“I probably won’t be cleared by the doctors to start a throwing program until at least May,” Ginny says, twisting her mouth unhappily. “Maybe not even until June… You don’t know how bad I wanna just throw a baseball. It’s taking everything in me to not just grab a ball and do some long toss on the backfields after everyone else has gone in for the day.”

“I sit out a year in the minors,” Omar says, meandering over to where she’s standing. She flips one of the tennis balls to him and Omar catches it against his chest. “Tore up my knee working out in the winter. Ligaments, meniscus, everything just shredded. I needed surgery, then missed the whole year. I can’t do anything at all for months. And then after I was cleared, it still hurt. Walking hurt like hell. Coaches had to sit on me to keep me from pushing myself.”

“Exactly,” Ginny says, with a miserable little sigh. She gives up on the tennis balls and kicks them away. “I hate it so much.”

“Gotta be patient,” Omar says, going over to join her. “It won’t always be this bad.”

“Easy for you to say.” Ginny almost immediately squawks and claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was crappy. Of course you know how this—”

“It’s fine,” Omar says, smiling at her and nudging her in the shoulder. “Feels like the world’s coming to an end every day you’re not out there throwing, right?”

“Right.” Ginny leans back against the wall and rests her head, eyes slipping shut. “I’m gonna drive myself nuts. How’d you keep from just…just losing it?”

Omar remembers _losing it_ , as she says. Just flipping out one particularly difficult day during the recovery process and throwing shit. Throwing a tantrum, kicking his gear, breaking a bat over his knee. It didn’t help him to feel any better. He was still hurt, still a long ways away from seeing green grass and blue sky overhead, and now his gear was trashed. 

“Sometimes that happens. Sometimes it feel… ¿ _sin esperanza_? How you say… hopeless?” When Omar looks over at her, Ginny is looking right back at him with an assessing gaze, eyes alight.

“Yeah,” she says, glancing away, eyelashes fluttering, “without hope.”

“I…I have to remind myself. There’s a light in the end of the tunnel. A pot of gold in the end of the rainbow,” he says. “It’s not always gonna feel this bad. You’ll heal, and you’ll come back. You’ll be stronger.”

Ginny reaches out, grasping his hand in hers and lacing their fingers together. Her palm is dry and callused, like Omar’s. 

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Ginny says, squeezing his hand.

Omar squeezes back. “ _De nada_.”

Ginny keeps hold of his hand. The tiny hint of a smile tugs up the corners of her mouth. They stay there like that, leaning against the wall, fingers locked, until practice is over. Omar doesn’t think too much about how perfectly their hands fit together. Only a little bit, only a little bit. There’s just a little pang too, a little tug on his heart, but the ache doesn’t linger like it used to. 

Omar doesn’t have the picture anymore. He packed it up at the end of the season and he thinks it’s probably in a bunch of his stuff in a storage unit somewhere. He doesn’t need it anymore anyway. 

He looks at Ginny again. The light dances over her features, tipping them in gold. She looks like someone powerful, someone in command. He feels grateful he’s gotten to know her, just a little bit. Lawson can rattle off a laundry list of facts he knows about Ginny to prove a point—what, exactly, that point is, Omar’s not sure—but Omar knows some things too.


End file.
